mortality
by Light and Noise
Summary: He doesn't like knowing that he was never vulnerable, not to his dark knight. He was never capable of dying, he was always the unstoppable force. But now he knows he can be stopped, and he hates it. He can be so easily worked, and the Bat will never know how much he's come undone with a simple bomb he had nothing to do with. ((Also on AO3.))


**Summary**: _He doesn't like knowing that he was never vulnerable, not to his dark knight. He was never capable of dying, he was always the unstoppable force. But now he knows he can be stopped, and he hates it. He can be so easily worked, and the Bat will never know how much he's come undone with a simple bomb he had nothing to do with._

**TDKR**; The Joker has realized that he can die and mortality isn't something he's quite ready to understand.

**Notes**: Mortality, Religion_*****_, Death, Mentions of Death, batman is obviously dead, this sort of takes place in how i percieve the Joker's mind to be, _*****_mentions a few religions, although not very in depth. it mentions them for the purpose of the fic, but nothing too serious

* * *

He's going to die. Perhaps not right this instant, nor tomorrow, and probably not any time within the next month. But he knows one day, he will die. Genuinely, he hasn't given his own mortality much thought. (Not that mortality has a place in thoughts like his.) He's always been a here and now type of human, one minute planting a bomb and the next minute realizing his only escape would break his leg. Mortality is always far from his mind.

But he realizes, now, that maybe he should plan accordingly. He can't even say this is spontaneous; the man does many things, but he never lies to himself. It keeps him on his toes to have someone honest with him. He knows why his mortality is suddenly important, he knows why his heart is clenching painfully and he knows why he's struggling to breathe.

The Bat is dead.

Thinking those words make him grasp at his chest. His heart aches and his lungs burn. _The Bat is dead, the Bat is dead, the Bat is dead_. Dead. Like, they'll never exchange fists again. Like, the Bat will never demand to know how to diffuse the bomb hanging upside down from the Virgin Mary's mouth at Gotham General again. Like, he'll never get punched in the face and have the pleasure of seeing his grease paint smeared across inky kevlar again. The Bat has fallen.

And he knows that he himself can fall. He's never fallen. He has reigned at the top of chaos for years, never been knocked off his throne. Never needed to wonder what happens when you're dethroned.

But he's threatened with mortality now. It makes his vision go a little hazy around the edges, it makes the air taste purple in a way it never did before. Mortality, he decides, is threatening. It's invading his senses and making him feel... human. It is an unwelcome feeling. But, for once, he can't hide the feeling in grease paint or a slew of bank robberies. He can't bury the feeling into kevlar protected skin and hope it stays secret forever.

He will die. He knows that for sure. In truth, until now, he didn't want to die. He has always been perfectly fine here. Dodging and returning angry punches gave him a rush. Paint tainting kevlar always felt right. Kohl lined eyes glaring hatefully into his paint smeared eyes gave him... Well, hope.

There's another world, he's sure, where his heart doesn't ache and he can bring himself to laugh and ridicule these thoughts. He hates not being in that world. He hates being in this world, where his phone search history is predominantly Wikipedia's various religion articles. He hates being in this world, where rebirth as a snail appeals to his mortality. He really hates having a sense of his own life.

Mostly, he hates feeling vulnerable.

That's what he is. Right now, and maybe forever from now, he is a very vulnerable human. And like his lungs, the feeling burns. He imagines he can feel it sizzling through his veins, imagines he can feel it burning up all his blood, imagines he can feel his veins, hollow and raw. And then he imagines the vulnerability washing through his veins again, and it burns them and fills them completely until his blood is waves of vulnerability, until he's sure that if he cut himself, the vulnerability in his veins would ooze blue slime down his pallid skin.

His phone beeps and brings him out of it. A laugh bubbles to his lips; the screen is flashing an emergency alert message, announcing that Bane has been killed and the remaining police officers are rounding up the rogue criminals. It adds that civilians can leave their homes but to be extremely cautious.

He laughs loudly and hysterically, his vulnerability and mortality temporarily pushed from his mind. Outside his apartment, he can hear the voices of confused civilians yelling and shouting and laughing and it only makes him laugh more. The Bat died for simplicity, he died so these simpletons with no concept of a different world could go on being simple. It both tickles and disgusts him and he laughs it out until his lungs burn in a good way. But the burning in his lungs sobers him up, reminds him why he's laughing in the first place. The Bat is dead. He can see the haze and taste the purple as it creeps back in, his veins feel the vulnerability throb at their raw insides. He sets his eyes back on his phone and swipes it open.

He stares at the Buddhism page of Wikipedia for what feels like years. Maybe it is years, but the civilians are still rejoicing and crying outside and he figures time is just torturing him. Everything else is, so why not time too?

The screen to his phone fades out and his lips twist into a snarl as he unlocks it again. The words burn his eyes and he throws the phone to the floor, his veins throbbing and his mouth tasting so purple he wonders of he could puke purple.

He doesn't like this, he decides. He doesn't like wondering if he'll ever see the Bat again. He doesn't like wondering if the Bat believed in God, or Jehovah, or Buddha. (Secretly, he thinks the Bat was a Jehovah type of guy.) When he tastes regret at the back of his throat, he rushes to stand. He doesn't like this.

He's a killer. He killed that minx Rachel Dawes because he thought it would be fun to break Harvey Dent. He killed a man with a pencil because it entertained him. He rigged two cargo ships to explode to prove he was in control. He watched hungry dogs eat their owner because he had felt like it.

But he also killed that man for pretending to be the Bat. He had threatened Coleman Reese because Reese had put the Bat at risk of exposure. He killed the commissioner who put the Bat at risk. He killed Rachel Dawes because the Bat jumped out a window after her.

He doesn't vomit purple. He leaves a trail of non-purple vomit as he tries to get to his shabby bathroom. He fails miserably and kneels above the browning toilet with nothing left in his stomach except purple that's not there. His mouth tastes like purple and regret. Regret that he didn't see it. Regret for mortality. Regret for regretting. He tastes purple and he can't see and his veins are burning and he's laughing.

He imagines his laughter filling the air, little purple HAs dancing in the faint light of the bathroom. The HAs bleed into the room until he's suffocating but he can't stop laughing and the haze is purple and the HAs fill the room. His gut twists and clenches and all that's in there is purple.

Sirens pull him back this time. He's suddenly aware of the smell of his own vomit and he wrinkles his nose. He swings himself to his feet and leaves the room, trailing into the main room. He picks up his phone and goes to the window, quick fingers texting Thomas to come clean up his mess. He sets his phone down on the window sill when Thomas replies with a simple '_k_'.

He can't taste the purple anymore and his vision is as clear as ever. He's fairly certain that if he cut himself, he'd bleed simple blood. But he's still painfully aware that he will die.

Across the street, there's a fire and he can count at least three unmoving bodies outside the burning building. There's a firetruck and a crowd. Thomas better not get put off by the crowd. He opens the window just in case. The voices from the street are clearer now, and he lets out a giggle at how truly _simple_ Gothamites are.

He listens with a disturbingly calm smile as civilians whisper about the unmoving bodies. He hears an older woman saying that their souls are safe with God. Is the Bat's soul safe with God? Maybe the Bat has already been reborn. He's probably his own son or something. The painted man lets out a hysteric giggle at that thought. He knew the Bat didn't have a squeeze. The last one he had associated with was Miranda Tate. He'd lost tabs on her shortly after Thomas saw her go in for judgment. He hopes she's dead.

The fire is out across the street and the firemen are bringing out bodies. The crowd surges forward and he can pick out every person who says 'God', and one girl who begs the Goddess to give her strength. He ruled out Wicca relatively fast. He has no interest in what it offers and finds the female dominated religion sickening in that it is female dominated. Call him old fashioned, but women are useless.

He will die. His veins throb again and he elbows his phone to the floor. He's vulnerable by the window, he realizes. And with purple on his tongue and haze in his eyes, he moves to the couch.

Thomas finds him laughing on the couch. It's not unusual -he's always in on a joke Thomas never is. He laughs as Thomas eyes the vomit trail, he giggles as Thomas gathers a mop and a bucket of water, he chuckles as Thomas begins to mop, and he sneers as Thomas begins to hum.

Does Thomas know of his mortality? He wonders if Thomas prays to God for blessings every night. He's the type.

"Tom_my_," he sing-songs. "You're going to _die_." Thomas's grip on the mop goes slack and his humming catches in his throat. He looks up, eyes wild and terrified.

"W-w-w-what did I-I-I do?" he stutters.

The painted man shrugs one shoulder. "Noth_ing_ at _a_ll." Thomas looks confused. "One day, Wittle Tommy is just... _Dead_!" He smiles brightly.

Thomas stares at him and shakily starts mopping again. "Y-yes," he says. "But I-I'm gonna go to Heaven. W-w-with my momma." He looks up briefly at the other man who just stares with a smile.

"Just, ah, po_p_? Str_ai_ght to Heaven?" Thomas nods. When the painted man doesn't speak further, Thomas resumes his humming as he mops.

On the other hand, the painted man can taste purple again. He can taste the laughter and he can feel the bubbled HAs bouncing around the base of his throat. He smiles at Thomas. The man is complacent with his mortality. He doesn't care. He knows he will die.

He can taste the regret again. It's bouncing with the HAs and burning his throat like his veins and lungs burn. He regrets not knowing, he regrets not seeing. He regrets that the Bat didn't feel the same. He regrets that the Bat faced his mortality head on. Wasn't their little... Thing supposed to be them avoiding their mortality? Didn't the Bat lay his secrets in purple clad skin? Didn't the paint smearing his kevlar as they exchanged blows give him hope? Didn't he have a reason to run from mortality? And isn't his reason, the one he abandoned with fervor to defend Gotham from simplicity, laughing hysterically on his couch, drowning in purple bubble Has?

He doesn't stop laughing for a while. He knows Thomas is lost in the purple HAs and he knows Thomas probably hates the taste of purple. But mortality is overwhelming. Being aware is disgusting. He laughs until there are no more HAs jumping in his throat, until the bubble letters are floating out the window. He laughs until Thomas says he's done mopping (though he can barely hear Thomas's voice through the HAs). He giggles as he waves Thomas to the door, calling out after the schizophrenic, "S_o_rry about the purple."

His giggles fade as the door clicks shut, and he watches the HAs wriggle and bounce and fade away to a clear living room. His phone beeps and he heaves himself up to get it. His mouth presses into a grim line and his eyebrows furrow. _'there wasnt any purple boss.'_

He hits the back button and stares at the list of religions he has been contemplating. He wonders which one Bruce Wayne identified as. He wonders if he will meet the Bat, _his_ Bat, Bruce Wayne, again. He wonders why the Bat fell. He wonders what didn't give him hope. He wonders why he's gone.

Part of him knows, and he doesn't want to lie to himself. He knows how _moral_ the Bat was, how he only did things for the good of Gotham. He knows that the Bat's moral compass pointed almost constantly due north. He knows that _Bruce_ had a sense of his mortality. He fucked, he threw money at things, he had a beautiful manor. He knew Bruce Wayne could die. And if his crutch, his alibi, his alter ego, could die, then the Bat could die too.

Part of him knows Bruce was aware, but mostly he doesn't like to admit it. He doesn't like knowing that all the secrets buried in kevlar were never heard, he doesn't like knowing that he was running from mortality alone, he doesn't like knowing that the Bat had no hope for him. He doesn't like knowing that he was never vulnerable, not to his dark knight. He was never capable of dying, he was always the unstoppable force. But now he knows he can be stopped, and he hates it. He can be so easily worked, and the Bat will never know how much he's come undone with a simple bomb he had nothing to do with.

All those people, all those lives, all those simple things he made complicated and ruined... They all amounted to this. To the Joker sitting in an apartment, his heart hurting so much he wonders how he can function, the air tasting purple, laughing. Everything he's done has come here. Everyone he's ever killed or maimed has brought him here. Each girl he beat, each woman he violated, each boy he made cry, each man he made powerless, each person he ruined... He wonders if they can see him from their afterlives, if they think this is karma. Does he believe in Buddhism then? He decides not, and so this is not karma.

Outside, it's quiet. He wonders if the simple civilians have come back into the complex. He wonders who prays and who doesn't give a shit.

Perhaps, the Joker thinks, it will be best if he just dies. Simply, because the Bat died for simplicity. He thinks it's simply death that waits for him on the other side. All the religions in the world and he's going to end up burning in all of them. He's ruined and violated so many lives, he's never done a lick of good.

He's not going to see his Bat again. He lets out a sob he intended to be a laugh. He isn't a good man. He's inherently cruel and deceptive. But he wonders if even _he_ deserves this. He wonders if he deserves to be separated from his Bat, from all those secrets inlaid in kevlar. He wonders if he doesn't just deserve death, the plainest and least rewarding thing he could ever possibly have.

He decides that no matter what religion he jumps aboard, he'll never see his Bat. It'll be like prison. Women in one place, men in another. Heaven here, Hell there. Visiting hours nonexistent. At least in Arkham, his Bat had the option of seeing him. And if it's between knowing he's just out of reach and never being aware of where Bruce is again, the choice is simple.

The Joker will die. It might not happen right now, or tomorrow, or even in the next month. But the Joker will die. He will die, him, his memories, his secrets, his heart. The Joker will die; his mortality and his vulnerability, the purple and haze and burning waves, will kill him. And the Joker will fall.


End file.
